


To shoot a star(out of galaxy)

by Milestogo56 (Pink_boxers_rainbow)



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Academy Era, Angst, Autistic Child Character, Dammit Jim, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kid Fic, M/M, Pon Farr, Professor Spock (Star Trek), Starfleet Academy, Subways, Vulcan Bond, tw:past non-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2019-11-14 11:01:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18051248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pink_boxers_rainbow/pseuds/Milestogo56
Summary: “Jim.”The young boy—Jim said, stopping him mid sentence. Spock wasn’t about to ask him his name, rather he thought that would have been the end of their conversation. However and whatever way he was drawn towards the boy like a moth towards a fire, he never entertained the actual idea of satisfying his curiosity because he understood this was illogical.“Thank you, Jim.”Spock said, without any gratefulness in his voice. He pulled along the tattered covers of his book—for any type of distraction—before opening it. Perhaps if he showed he was in-fact, not going to be involved in casual chit-chat then the youth will turn away. He was wrong.“Hey—” Jim says, stepping a bit closer, “— is that Linda Pastan?”-----------------------------------------------------------A chance encounter on the subway shouldn't mean much to Spock. Yet, this strange cadet somehow entangled himself into Spock and his daughter's life.  This messy, illogical and yet so fascinating human shouldn't make him yearn for more--but somehow, Jim did entrap that yearning and made it grow tenfold.





	1. Rain and Pastan

**Author's Note:**

> 乁( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)ㄏ  
> Also read the footnote :)

If there was question or an academic quiz prepared by Prof. Schumer on the benefits and sentimental preference of subways to railways, even when need of such transport should be illogical and inefficient—like most of his students, Spock would have chosen metro, mostly for the sake of human nostalgia and a having a tendency for hoarding young, snotty humans. Now don’t get him wrong, he had nothing for the young flesh except perhaps curiosity and a bit of exasperation. That’s where he got a glimpse of him, surprisingly, among a crowded Wednesday commute to Academy. 

Spock was relatively new to this place, too young to be a place for him and yet he bought an apartment—wishing to get away but not too far. The logical over-view of the situation made it seem like an unnecessary emotional predicament; he understood his own pain which instead of flowing like Nile stayed stagnant and green, like the pond beside his new apartment. He found the pond merely by accident; it stood out among the well trimmed neighborhood and smelled awfully non-terran, little specks of green blotches swayed slightly as autumn wind caressed along its calm surface. Spock found, humorously, how metaphorical the pond was to him. His lips quirked into his half smoked cigarettes (a totally illogical activity considering it neither levitated, nor made him feel calm.) blearily looking back at the mostly empty streets.

(There was no logical reason as to why he bought the pack of cigarettes when he found the smell offending and smothering.)

Wednesday mornings were somehow fuzzy and mostly filled with young students who had morning classes—wrapped in steel and plastic, eyes bloodshot and figure nimble from overuse, fingers drumming nervously against coffee cups—some almost spilling—heads not along the track of people but filled with dry cotton music of the century. He pities them somewhat, feels frustration at the system but he knows it’s futile. Humans were not meant to take such heavy courses—there were exceptions— and his own students were getting wary of how Starfleet operates. There have been discussions, and public debates of how it should take accountability when needed—Spock agreed.

Fingering along the lines of fold, he held the book tightly boarding the train with other passengers. Some of them recognized him and smiled but most of them were strangers to him and he felt a smooth sort of peace along his limbs. Spock didn’t see him at first—it was a crowded place—and he didn’t like eye-contacts as much as he should. It was nothing probably; he looked up to the sound of announcer and found impeccably blue eyes ( and a sudden image of Vulcan skies erupted in his mind) staring at him. He held the contact for merely three seconds and didn’t waste more than a thought or two on those sharp features. It was not an uncommon occurrence so he glanced back at Warsan Shire teaching through her mother feminine virtue, or the lack thereof. The book wasn’t old exactly, he just liked to leaf through them during his rather empty office hours. Shire painted pictures in literal manner, so unlike human preferences for personifications and figure of speeches—simple, blunt and disgusting—she didn’t need to let on politely that her whole body was holding along a lifeline. He looked up again to find those eyes downcast, looking at his own PADD.

He got off exactly 4 poems and 15 minutes later and didn’t look back.

~*~

 

The next time he saw him it was a bleary Monday. Spock didn’t notice him straight away -- not with the way the wind was blowing cold, sharp air into his face, making his skin feel tight and fragile. It was that infuriating time of the terran year when winter slowly slipped into spring, and the weather stayed dull and grey most of the time with the occasional sunny interim. It was depressing. People stood close to each other, subconsciously huddled in groups in order to keep away the worst of the weather’s moods. Spock, however, stood slightly apart, nose buried in his book, scarf pulled half-up his face. He had forgotten his gloves at home (a testimony and his memory and habits are failing him, that something is wrong within) , and now the skin between his fingers had turned slightly chapped. There was the disadvantage of morning commute when his students started making small talks to dislodge the awkward silence and he would answer polity until it was clear to them that he didn’t fancy fraternizing.

Suddenly, there was an announcement (The next train at platform three will be delayed by fifteen minutes. We apologize for the inconvenience.) at which Spock lifted up his head -- as if it could sharpen his hearing -- and huffed slightly, unrestrained by the presence of bystanders. He heard a momentary click on tongue colorful swearing, which perturbed him slightly. He looked beside, and indeed, if his memory did him any justice then the youth beside him is the same youth he encountered few weeks ago. His foggy blue eyes crinkling as he noticed Spock looking his way, smiling and nodding his head in acknowledgment. Spock nodded back, most of his face was covered so he was relieved he didn’t have to return the gesture. He went back to his book and masked the irrational need to strike a conversation. 

He found himself seated sometimes later in-between two chatty old ladies, their interaction nothing peculiar but not distracting for him to keep reading. He breathed deeply trying to find his centre but somehow couldn’t control himself, which was unusual but nothing sort of prominent. He has been doing so lately—being late, being off-track, being emotionally vulnerable and everything he would categorize as being disoriented and not himself. He was letting past association dictate his state and (even If he knew how) he didn’t let the pain to lie dormant. In fact, he let it play with mind and make him indulge in activates he wouldn’t have desired otherwise.

Spock sighed profoundly and looked up, oddly, searching unconsciously for a pair of foggy eyes. In-front of him, the boy with his unruly head of gold was smiling—or rather, quirking his lips in a coy manner—towards his left. Spock found his eyes following the direction and stopping on a young woman who was grinning openly. 

Oh.

He found this sort of interaction amusing. Human courting rituals were amusing, and ever-changing. He wouldn’t admit it but before , Spock used to consume terran literature like a barbarian who didn’t have food for days. He would often, after a heavy day where his emotions refused to co-operate, would lean onto I-chaya’s furry body to read—and somehow feel the lingering scent of the author in it. Like mother’s perfume when she used to kiss him goodnight, before he stopped her from indulging him, only fainter.

The steady habit didn’t leave him till now.

Much too late, Spock noticed the side-glance a stranger was giving him; all the same, he threw them a sympathetic nod. Reluctantly, the stranger replied with a tight-lipped smile with raised eyebrows –motioning towards the young man. He nodded, hesitantly, without understanding the notion of the gesture.

When he opened his book again, it was almost time to get off the train.

~*~

 

The fanfare was an exaggerated affair the student council was allowed to participate in. In fact, had it not been for Schumer’s persistent need to see a revolutionary strike among the students then today would have been another normal day where Spock would have been taken introductory xeno-linguistic classes. Instead, he had been answering a room full of cold-blooded student his stance on linguistic xenophobia and Orion trade somehow. Why cadet advisers approved of this, Spock cannot deduce but he can safely say when hours of cultural sensitivity classes hadn’t work—this won’t either.

The subject might have been interesting if any of the students had refuted, stood up and pointed out the flaws in his speech (that he deliberately slipped in) about Talsonian and Celti population but all he got are collective nods, some stammering and some dull questionnaire probably pre-made and without any creative overture—so inhumane, and yet matching. This year’s class was probably the most infatuating—Spock heaved out a deep breath.

When he got on at 241st Street, the subway was fairly filled with people who were standing in circles to avoid the cold rush of the wintry tunnel winds. This week, the season felt rather dull with mix of cold blows here and there— tasteless and unimaginative, but icy enough to freeze the creases between your fingers and making them numb. There were a couple of teenagers huddled together, not Starfleet by their attire but some short of musician. Spock would never admit he liked music much, yet there wasn’t distaste for it when he delved deeper into thinking why.

He didn’t posses the power to control his emotions if he thought why, shaking his head and sighing loudly he took the opportunity to take out the slightly crumpled covered book, its edges fraying into a territory of total disregard. It was not entirely logical, he concluded, to keep his things without care but at this moment of his life nothing felt logical. Even the staccato of his heart is uneven,—his feet were floating on air, his body cracked like old wood every-time he tired to move. He felt he was more than 29 terran years.

He wasn’t entirely oriented with himself (a rare commodity) and found the frayed book slipping from his grasp and falling onto the dirty, bubblegum stricken floor.  
Another mistake.

He admonished himself silently, reaching down with difficulty to pick it up when suddenly someone swished it out of his reach. Spock stood up abruptly, feeling dizzy with the movement and came to halt only when he found (deep end of a pool) blue eyes staring at him. One tanned hand thrust the book forward without much curtsy and those sly lips stretched across their teeth like a cat with its prey.

“This is yours, probably?”

The same young man, whom he saw all those weeks away, teased. Spock nodded slightly, apparently transfixed and a little put off. He pulled the book away, albeit a little harshly, from those thin hands but continued to look at the young boy’s way. The boy was, as Spock saw, an inch or two shorter—thin but not overtly so; he could probably be called lean—and putting on muscles. He was Starfleet, with his red cadet uniform—a new recruit. His golden hair was cut short, but silky in a way and had him curiously transfixed. Most important were of course, as his eyes traveled and found the young man staring, were those (Vulcan skies) blue eyes. Spock felt awfully calm looking at them; nevertheless he sensed some awaiting tragedy.

“Yes. And thank you—”

“Jim.”

The young boy—Jim said, stopping him mid sentence. Spock wasn’t about to ask him his name, rather he thought that would have been the end of their conversation. However and whatever way he was drawn towards the boy like a moth towards a fire, he never entertained the actual idea of satisfying his curiosity because he understood his gut feeling.

“Thank you, Jim.”

Spock said, without any gratefulness in his voice. He pulled along the tattered covers of his book—for any type of distraction—before opening it. Perhaps if he showed he was in-fact, not going to be involved in casual chit-chat then the youth will turn away. He was wrong.

“Hey—” Jim says, stepping a bit closer, “— is that Linda Pastan?”

“Yes,” Spock answered, purposefully distracted and continued to flip through the pages. There were many people who knew of her, but then quite less ever recognized her. A true genius with words, Spock thought.

“So,” the youth continued. “Are you going through some sort of emotional recovery phase or are you just pretentious?”

Spock closed the book roughly, highly disturbed by those words. A cold sense of something abruptly filled his abdomen. The fascination he felt earlier was slowly turning into irritation and anger. The anger was subjective; it wasn’t quite related to Jim as much as it was to him. Four months of pain and shouldering the trauma—of a lost soul, a lost heart, a part of him—

“Excuse me?” He strangled out of himself, somehow appearing calm and uninterested.

“You know…” Jim started; Spock saw his fingers were drumming against hem of his t-shirt. Jim was biting his lips, smile falling from his face. His eyes downcast, lips wounded tightly. “…In the poem, following denial is anger, then depression, then hope in the form of compromise…”

“Oh.” Spock replies to the sudden shift in mood, the energy around Jim changing from a self-confident arrogant youth to a meek, self-deprecating one. The boy’s once sun like aura slipping into something cold and distant. “What did you mean by pretentious?”

“Pretentious…” Jim trailed off again, he looked up and his eyes met Spock’s for a moment before crinkling along the corners. “You know –the superficiality? Rich kids with big mouth and nothing better to do than appear…pretentious.”

“Understandable but wrong.” Spock answered automatically; he lifted the book again to look through it, the first four line of pain in disguise and the remaining of suppression. He shouldn’t read a book this close to his apartment—

“Anyway, she seemed pretentious.” Jim says, his hands are crossed across his chest now probably warding off the cold. Spock looked up to meet the foggy eyes again and then looked down, back to his book but felt his mind scrambling; awfully distracting.

“…Plath is your favorite, I assume?” Spock asked, now a little intrigued. It was nothing special if a young hot blooded male like Jim found Linda’s simple housewifery so irritatingly superfluous. In-fact, it appeared that Jim favored Plath’s haunted words about domesticity than self-indulgent cynics of Pastan.

“No,” Jim shook his head, “More of a Sexton guy.”

“Indeed?” He says, allowing a small smile to which Jim seemed to perk up.

“Yeah, well. I may not know much of literature but I like to read them when I can somewhat—relate to them.” Jim finished, hands moving about in an articulate manner trying to express his point of view—arms moving in no particular order or sequence. He closed off, huffing out a breath, but Spock understood.

“…And how did you relate with Sexton?” Spock asked, innocently.

Jim winked as the announcer broadcasted the arriving station. He looked up, eyes catching the blinking light of commute before huddling towards the crowd standing near the gate—moving almost in an energetic fashion, like an over-excited dog. It took a while before Spock realized that it was his station too.

“Fascinating.” He murmured, rushing off towards the open doors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. I am trying to venture again into a long chapter ed story. I am sorry if it seems too ooc. I was dead set on getting Spock's character right, I wanted him to have a short of dry humor. I am really in a bad mental state because I couldn't write for months--I was hysterical. I am was really anxious while posting this and I just..I don't know what I wanted. I still didn't like how I wrote this chapter. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are appreciated, it will make me write faster. See you next week!
> 
> Thanks luchaDora! She keeps my spirk watered.


	2. Children and Shire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Sorry for the late update, I have very very important exams next month!
> 
> Also i would love it if you guys could tell me which was your favorite part or which one was kinda wacky?

The apartment was quite, awfully so and Spock had a sudden moment of panic before he schooled his features into what he supposes, his father looked like when he would reprimand Spock. He loses his coat, trying it around the hanger near the door and calmly—very calmly walks into his living room.

Spock breaths a little normally when he sees her sitting on the carpeted floor—eyes closed, mouth pinched together in concentration and bony shoulder’s stiff. He walks around the couch, gracefully like a cat so there is minimal noise when his socked feet moves along the carpeted floor to create friction.

“Talok,” Spock starts, folding his hands behind himself and standing stiffer than a plank of wood.

The child slowly opens her eyes and looks up. Spock could see a sudden flash of fear in them and then swiftly, as if she never looked up, moved her eyes away from his face to focus at his chest. She rises slowly and as gracefully a five year old Vulcan child can, standing in the same stiff position as Spock.

“Sa-mekh,” She says, then after a pause. “I estimated that you would be late”

Spock represses the physical need to sigh—it was a human habit that he came to assimilate after working alongside captain Pike. He looks at Talok and does not need to analyze her behavior to understand how tense and anxious she is, there is the soft hum of their familiar bond quivering under undue stress and embarrassment.

“I am not feeling anger towards you.” Spock states. “It would illogical.”

Talok looks up then again flicks down her eyes and doesn’t speaks. Spock concludes she understood her own misdeed but couldn’t control her impulses like a common Vulcan would, after all she was an exceptional child.

“I urged you to wait till I returned, Talok. I did not presume it was required to inform the Day-care office to see to your safety,” Spock says a little stricter now. “I understood that you would respect my wish to fetch you, since it would be safer.”

“Vulcan children of my age can Travel without supervi—“

“On Vulcan, yes. Yet, we are on earth and I have informed you before about xenophobic violence non-terran species are victim of. Not all species are peaceful and logical, Talok.” He says firmly, and doesn’t know how to add that he is always concerned about her—so much, that there was no logic behind any decision he took for her.

Talok shifted; shoulder no longer bound by imaginary ropes as they slump forward. She still didn’t look at Spock as she gingerly sits on the edge of the couch, fingers picking the small threads along the cushioned armrest. She was always apprehensive, and a little slow in understanding what Spock meant but that wouldn’t deter him from forging a great familial relation with her. He was her father and he would never abandon her.

“I did not…” She breathed in deeply, wording carefully what she meant. “I do not find the centre adequate to my state. I would rather appreciate it if, and would additionally cause you no further worry…if I stayed here while you completed your work.”

“Talok,” Spock says, “It would be unwise.”

“I will be careful. I have meditated today and found my linear concentration has increased 3.54 percent.” She says again, restless and unable to hide the pride in her voice.

Against his own better judgment, and the crumbling wall of shields in his mind, he finds himself smiling ever so slightly. His hands softly pat against curls of Talok’s hair—soft like his mother’s and uncontroleable like the happiness that shines brighter than sun, as the bond thrummed with power. He understands, from what his mother said that unlike Spock his daughter thrived on physical comfort.

“ _Tal kam._ ” Spock says softly, “I am…satisfied with your results.” 

And the bond fizzled again, with such raw electric surge that it made Spock breathless, too emotional and naïve at the same time—it felt like a mental embrace. His child is different than most Vulcan and he hoped, with such illogical need, that she stayed that way. 

“However, there is no other option at the time other than the day care centre. I would suggest bearing patience as I find alternatives to the situation.” Spock advices and just like that, the bond fizzles and the warmth is gone.

“Okay.” She says meekly.

Spock hesitates a little before venturing, “Would you to learn more about the enterprise? I do not have any pressing matter to attend this evening.” and he knows the response by the tick of Talok’s sleek eyebrow rising, because if there is anything Spock gathered in these eight months is that Talok had certain affinity for starships.

“Okay.” She says hiding a smile and for a moment Spock couldn’t stop his mind from bringing back the images of T’pring’s face.

\--------

In certain estimation and calculation of chances, with the ongoing indepdant variables (being the weather) and square roots for the sake of “scientific curiosity”—Spock estimates that Jim would be boarding the same compartment on Wednesday along with him. The climate thus far was fairly tolerable in human standards, considering the naked man who walked past him this morning and How Number one took off her vermilion Starfleet issued vest once she was inside the commander’s office. However, it wasn’t much fair for vulcans, especially Talok. He could still feel the warm pressure of her lithe body clinging to absorb heat; she moved very slowly beside him but refused to be carried. Stubborn just like T’pring.

By the time he reached the academy, three point seven minutes later than usual (and something Spock could meditate on, his internal clock hadn’t been exactly right) there were borders of snow across his shoulders and the sharp, ruthless wind springing upon his pointed nose like battlefield and the scarf no longer a held any bullets. He sighed minutely, shaking away the excess of snow and turning the temperature of his office to a comfortable level. It was still early for any students to come barging in but he still held some hope that, in time, the day would be productive.

However, before he could settle down the illogically expensive mahogany chair, that all other professors possessed, his comm. blinked red informing him that it was someone from his emergency contact list.Spock pulls up the message without looking at the recipient(his mind going numb and desolate with the amount of sudden anxiety it caused), waiting barely some seconds before the complex messaging system shows him that it was Captain Pike.

_Commander,  
If you are free, please come by office once you reach the academy_

By the look of it, Spock concluded it wasn’t anything important Pike was requesting his presence for—otherwise he would have signed the message with his official designation. He tilts his head to look back at the door, staying in the position for a few moments before estimating that there were no pressing matters he had to look-over—the faster he concluded the meeting the better.

When he entered the commander’s office he found Number one quietly drinking her tea just the way she does every morning. She took another sip before acknowledging his presence, eyebrows arching perfectly like a Vulcan. Spock believes that number one would have been an ideal Vulcan.

“Good-morning Commander Spock, how may I assist you?” She asks with what someone might summarize as stone cold indifference but to Spock –who has served beside her for 2.5 years—it sounded of warm familiarity, a little teasing.

“I was requested by Captain Pike to meet him if I was not restricted by my work.” Spock answers.

“Restricted…You could have just said ‘Free’.” She says and gets up from where she is perched on the couch. She grabs the PADD off her desk sending a quick request of permission to the Captain.

“‘Free’ has a variable implication, Commander. I simply cannot be ‘Free’” Spock replies.

“Sass, Spock? My, aren’t you getting a little too human.” There is a smile in her voice as she reads something off her PADD. “You can go in now.”

“I will never stoop that low, Commander.” Spock says, deadpan. He turns around once he sees the full-blown smile on her face and walks towards the adjoined Captain’s office. He knocks twice out of respect before the door opens up.

“Spock!” The captain exclaims once he is inside.

“Captain,” Spock acknowledges with a nod. His eyes travels around the desk Pike is sitting on with more than fifty PADD—on further inspection they all look like thesis paper written by a science track student.

“Ah, I was busy you know.” Pike says pointing at the obvious mess around his desk. “But sit down, I was about to ask you for a favor.”

“A favor, captain?”

“Yes—but,” Pike stumbles throwing the PADDs into a more disorganized manner and then picking up one from the mess. “Found it. Ah, yes. Are you free or is your mentor schedule already full? I have someone who might need some guidance.”

Spock thinks for a while before shaking his head, “I am relatively free to provide extra classes for this someone.”

“That’s good. I was hoping you could uh, tame him.” Pike says and then laughs to himself. Spock raises his eyebrows.

“Taming? I do not understand.”

“Well…” Pike starts. He keeps the PADD down, fingers crossing each other as he suddenly appears serious. “You know about George Kirk?”

“Evidently. All Starfleet cadets were required to learn about the Kelvin.” Spock says, a little curious.

“It’s his son. He was joined this year and…he is kind of a genius.” Spock sees a hesitance in him, and if there is anything he had learned of human behavior is that Captain Pike’s downcast eyes were filled with brimming guilt. “He uh, He didn’t have a great childhood, not much formal education and yet he is as bright as a star.”

Spock nods and doesn’t says anything. He thinks it’s a logical decision—to let him speak—but the truth is he didn’t know how to handle the Captain’s distress.

“I am scared he is going to burn out soon.” Pike admits with a sigh. “He is in command track but his knowledge about wrap deportation and xeno-agricultre is astounding— or so Professor Vladimir says.”

“How may I help?” Spock asks, trying to appear empathic. 

Pike looks up then, a sad smile playing on his lips. “I don’t exactly know Spock but I felt you could tell me that. It is illogical, I understand and yet…”

“I understood, Captain.” Spock says but his mind is reeling. “You may send his data on my PADD, I will analyze him and looks forward on how I can guide him.”

“Analyze? No offense but it will harder than you imagine.” Pike says.“He is proficient in Vulcan somehow, andorian too.”

Spock tilts his head, a habit his mother was fond of. “I do not understand. You said he didn’t receive much formal terran education and yet this cadet is fascinatingly skillful in certain university level aspects.”

“Spock, if you ever found human beings to be illogical then I can assure you that he will drive you mad.” He says now, with humor.

“Will that be all, Captain?” Spock asks, setting aside the abrupt change in mood. He suddenly remembered about Cadet Uhura scheduling a meeting with him at 0845 (and how he keeps forgetting certain things now.)

“Yes, I will be sending the appropriate files soon enough. You are Dismissed, Commander.”

Spock nods and heads out of the door. He doesn’t number one but there is a sudden flash in his mind and he remembers Jim from the subway.

 

\---------------

 

Spock didn’t pick out Shire today because he felt nostalgic but there were aspects on longing in his mind—for mother and I-chaya, the land of sand dunes and sometimes the taunting of Vulcan children. He remembers and can relive the soft smell of kardavak flower his mother planted beside the bungalows, the roses that didn’t quite live for six months and father’s incense. 

The train was strangely humid today. There was no hubbub but smooth sort of perfect tension that connected the few strangers in train. There was an andorian beside Spock and the isolation he usually felt among the cluster of humans felt less today. There was calmness here that he doesn’t recall understanding. He pulls out the book, fingering to the page where she speaks of her strangers in new land demanding her to go back into the mouth of sharks.

“Hi.”

Spock blinks, then he looks to his left and gets disoriented for a moment. Were Jim’s eyes always this blue? Did someone paint them the way Spock prefers the earth’s sky?

“Hello.” Spock says back and mentally braises himself.

“Happy to see me?” Jim asks mischievously. His teeth were all too white and blinding, biting somewhat innocently into the curve of his thumb nail.

“Vulcans don’t feel.” The words are out of his mouth before he could stop.

The place beside Jim’s very blue eyes crinkle, “Bullshit.”

“Are you accusing me of lying?” Spock asks.

“I am accusing you of bullshitting. Now say, is that Warsan Shire?” Jim smiles this time before looking down at the book. “Are we feeling desolate today?”

“That is not related.” Spock says softly, he has a feeling Jim already knows the answer.

“Bullshit.” Jim says again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Comments and kudos make me write better. 
> 
> didn't like the way the chapter was written haha.


	3. Sato and Mister

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I am awfully sick and cannot type. However, here is a smallish chapter and the next one will be posted this week! Please do comment :3 and thank you

“You never answered my earlier Query. How did you relate with Sexton?”

“I will. Once you tell me your name,” Jim says. His head is tilting sideways in such a tantalizing manner, tongue poking in what humans call a mischievous conduct. 

Spock raises his eyebrow, “I find it difficult to believe that you haven’t already acquired it.” 

“I do know your name, Professor.” Jim smiles and the tendency to be teasing didn’t stop. He drags his hands away from the pole he is leaning on the leaf through the pages of Sato, absent-mindedly licking his fingers (so obscenely that Spock had to look away, just for a moment to feel his own fingers) to move onto the next page. “But it’s different when someone willingly gives you their name.” 

“And? What would you gain from it, Cadet?” 

“I will get to say it.” Jim answers as if it’s that simple, As if Spock isn’t stumbling with words over the smile that Jim throws his way sometimes. It’s somehow, peculiar that Spock had noticed, not the same half smile that he shows to those women and men. But his laughs—so ardent and fascinating, detrimental to Spock’s trembling Shields—do make up the momentary lapse of logic he experiences around the cadet. 

“It’s Spock.” He says.

“What, No clan name?” Jim asks insistently, looking up to from the book Of Sato. 

“You couldn’t pronounce it.” Spock answers and then promptly picks up where he left off from the toad in my garden. It is not the type of literature he fancies but the words did pull him in a deep lull. Jim apparently had never heard of this book, most didn’t, considering a swift search about the author only bought up the bare minimum—and Spock himself found the tattered article in an antique shop that also kept Vulcan artifacts.   
“We will see about that, Professor Spock.” Jim says, trying to appear absent-minded and engrossed but failing miserably when he purred out the last part. Spock felt miniature Goosebumps traveling up his arms for no reason. “But right now, my main concern is Sato. You have read it, right?” 

Spock nodded. “The Nytoliac Treatise. Why are you reading it?” 

Jim shrugs and scratched his head. “This is…Illogical. He was a well educated rich guy who did nothing but wrote fucking treaties in his room while the civilization around him collapsed.” 

“That was not the motive of the book,” Spock says and then feels an oncoming argument. “He wrote about merits of failure and how a new, more advanced civilization will be born from it; more educated and, possibly benign.” 

Jim makes a particularly rude sound, and then closes the book with more roughness than necessary. “The civilization that was reborn wasn’t advanced. They are barely scraping by as of now.” 

“You are confusing human morality with alien culture. What you deem is advanced possibly is not be the same for Nytolics.” Spock insists again. He feels there is more to Jim’s rough statement that he is letting on. “The fact is, even with Sato’s help the civilization might not have survived and without Sato’s philosophical observations there would be no realization of failure as a means of teaching—or the creation of Starfleet’s prime directives.”

“You don’t know that.” Jim says. He sighs minutely before looking up with his too blue eyes at Spock, begging him to submit to his irrational theory. “What is more important?” 

“I--“ 

“Listen, I need to get off now. This debate will take forever, and I don’t want to be late.” 

Spocks feels his eyebrow rising as Jim interrupts him. He quickly re-orients himself and indeed, if his internal clock is right then their station will take barely three point five six minutes to arrive. He berates himself silently then faces Jim who is busy trying to fit the large book in his too small satchel. Spock notices just then that the book was paperback, surprisingly. 

“That is a paperback.” He says, voice holding a little fascination. 

Jim looks up then, smiles slightly but it felt…off. “Yes, I have quite a lot them.” 

Spock nods and then, asks. “You do not live inside the campus?” 

“I do. I just come to work here—there is daycare. Oh! Got to go now, Bye Spock!” Jim hurries through the crowd that gathered along the still closed door, Spock watches him. He didn’t need to hurry; the doors would be open for approximately two minutes after all. 

Spock sighs minutely, hands clutching the book tighter. There seem to a pattern to his disorganization and he needs to meditate.   
\----------------------------------------  
Talok was awfully cognizant and obedient today, Spock mused—and happy, if the thrum of her bond was anything to go by as they returned home walking side by side. The weather, still awfully cold and distant, didn’t make him uncomfortable. It was as if the comfort of the bond was slowly seeping into his fractured mind and healing it.

Once they returned Talok unceremoniously slopped into the couch, surprising Spock so much with her action that he was worried again. 

“Talok, do you require rest?” he asks, waiting by the small kitchenette. 

She nods a little serenely then says, “We participated in a human custom of hide and seek. It is what terran children do. Illogical.”   
“Indeed.” Spock says. “Were you forced to join?” 

“No.” Talok sat up suddenly, and then clearly embarrassed with her outbursts looks down at her feet. “Mister didn’t force me. He asked me…I wished to play.” 

“Mister?” Spock inquired as he turned around to take out his PADD and the paperback book. 

Talok nods and then hesitates. “He…He listens to what I have to say, Sa-mekh. He is a new recruit.” 

“I see. His name is Mister?” It appears to Spock he has a lot of backlog of data on his PADD that he needs to process. Captain Pike haven’t yet sent any Data on the cadet but he needs to prepared if the cadet is indeed unruly. 

“No, he insists I call him so.” 

Spock nods minutely. “I have projects from Starfleet that I require to finish Talok, would it be a problem if we finish our conversation after 1800s?” 

“Okay.” She says and then slips down on the carpeted floor to meditate. Spock’s lips twitches.


End file.
